


Keeping busy at the end of the world

by Vippy (orphan_account)



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, ambiguous setting, whittling, wood whittling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 11:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11758638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Vippy
Summary: The aftermath of the apocalypse can get tedious from time to time





	Keeping busy at the end of the world

He was working with his hands in the corner of the room. His pocketknife deftly slid along the balsa wood he held between his thighs, letting the shavings fall onto the floor freely.

The windows were boarded up, and they were keeping to just the one room, at the back of the ranch-style house. It had bright blue fixtures still, which was, Negan guessed, the reason Rick had chosen it as their temporary safe house.   
"You don't see colors like that often, now do you?" He had grinned. It made Rick happy, at least.

The carpet had holes and the cupboards were empty, and family portraits still hung uncomfortably in the halls, but it was warm. Negan wanted to take the pictures down. He didn't want strangers staring at him, but Rick refused. Didn't want to mess up someone else's house. Still worried that they might come home one night, easy as, and want their house back. Like anyone was coming home, Negan thought, but kept to himself. If Rick wanted his fantasy, cling onto a sliver of normalcy, he wasn't gonna stop him. 

They lived together in the main room. Had done for at least a week at this point (Negan didn't see the point in keeping track of days at this point). The furniture had been stripped down to parts, and placed over the windows or was barricading the doors, and so they were left with an eyesore of a rug, a muted shade of blue on the walls, and the light spots on the beechwood floor where the table and chairs used to be. Grime was collecting in the corners of the room and underneath their fingernails, between the creases of their faces. Negan would touch his face on occasion and come pack with dirt on his hands. Two sleeping bags lay like twin skeletons on one side of the room, their backpacks makeshift coffins.   
"Who the hell doesn't have a TV in this damn day and age?" Asked Negan one night, watching their shadows dance and move on the wall in candle light, pretending not to trace Rick's profile with his eyes.  
"Prolly didn't see the need. Not like you'd get good service out here anyway. Besides, plenty to do anyway. Gotta keep busy, no matter where you are."

 

They sat together, facing each other on the floor. Rick had made sandwiches with the last of the sausages and bread, and both savored every bite. This kind of meat was perishable, they knew. This kind of meat wasn't going to last long, they knew. This could be the last time either of them ever ate something like this. Soon enough, it would be rabbit, or dog, or insects they were eating instead. Negan studied Rick's face and wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

"Good meat," he murmured, and had to suppress an immature giggle. Rick tried to glare at him, but amusement shone in his eyes.  
"Always said one of the greatest joys in life is good, solid meat," Negan pushed further, just for the sake of it. Wanted to see how far he could get.  
"Does it get any better than thick, warm meat in your mouth?" He asked, twisting his face to conceal the smirk, still playing with Rick- whose poker face was admirable.   
To top it off, he half lidded his eyes, let his mouth hang open, and let out the most pornstar-esque moan he could manage, long and warbling. Rick finally went red, and Negan grinned.  
"What's wrong, Ricky-boy? Don't you like sausage?"

 

Rick held the wood unfamiliarly in his hands, but set to it with a straightforward determination, cutting away at the block quickly.  
"Careful there Grimes, you don't want to cut- oh Christ,"   
Rick looked him straight in the eye, and sucked the blood from his thumb. He prolonged eye contact for a few seconds longer before carrying on, just to watch Negan's reaction. Negan gulped.

"OK, now what you gotta do first is shape your block. Hold it in your left hand and your knife in your right, OK, like that, and just slice some bits off. Yeah, real smooth Ricky-boy.  
Good, good boy. Next, you just gotta kinda pull the knife towards ya, but keep your thumb out of the way. You see that pencil line? Just gotta follow that," 

At the minute, it wasn't looking like much, Negan had to admit. Just a wonky hunk of wood, with gaps and bumps cut in shoddily. But Rick looked almost proud of it, examining it and turning it over in his hands, glancing over at him from time to time to gage his reaction. He leaned over, whispered a few pointers in his ear, and stood up suddenly, announcing that he needed a leak.

 

"Cute. What is that, a rabbit?"  
"Duck, but I understand the confusion,"  
Rick turned it side to side, and chuckled. He'd amassed a collection of misshapen figures, and lay them out next to his sleeping bag.   
Rick was getting better, Negan admitted, although his first attempt took centre place in his army. They had both began to pick up small twigs wherever they found them, to take back to base. It made Negan feel like a schoolboy, trying to find his childhood sweetheart pretty rocks and pebbles to win her heart. 

They were playing cards, after a dinner of trail mix and nuts, washed down with dried milk. Rick was winning. Negan started to hum, relaxed and tired. Rick tapped along on the floor, smiling at him, and Negan returned it. Hazy and dazed, it was all he could do not to kiss him right there and then. But instead he looked away, once again watching their shadows meet and retreat, like waves on their wall.

"Do you know what I miss?" He wondered aloud one day, breaking the still calmness of the morning.  
"What?"  
"Whiskey. Good, old-fashioned whiskey. How long has it been since you had a proper drink, Grimes?"  
"There's a few bottles of cheap vodka in the cupboard, if that's what you're after. I'm not sure dulling our senses is the best idea in our scenario though, Negan."  
"C'mon Rick, live a little, huh? Get drunk with me, it'll be just like old times, I promise."

Even from the other room, Rick could hear Negan's singing. Loud and obnoxious and yet still charming and enjoyable. He was looking at himself in the mirror, watching the slight sway in his movements, like he was dancing alone. He tried to focus in on his eyes, told himself he knew what to do, what he had to do.

 

They didn't talk about it, the day after. Both rolled out of their sleeping bags, like they did every day, as if they were trying to convince themselves that it was, in fact, like every other day. Their conversation was indistinguishable from every other morning conversation they had, if it wasn't for the terse, almost guilty tone each of them spoke in.

 

"Are we gonna talk about it, then? Or are we just pretending nothing happened? Can't leave me in the dark forever, Rick. Come out and tell me how you feel, stop holing yourself up in their, Jesus."

 

Rick had found newspaper somewhere, and had wrapped his gift in the comics page.

It was a heart. Malformed and subpar but Negan loved it because of the man who loved it, made it, owned it.

 

"I think I love you,"

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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